magnum opus
by MarginalMary
Summary: The embodiment of my genius, yet I've done nothing to achieve it. How odd.
1. no hat to hide

**IDN own Bleach.**

**Musical Accompaniment: "Everybody's Changing" by Keane **

* * *

_A day of reckoning, all you thought you knew and all you thought you were,_

_Crashes lovely._

_Tis a day of reckoning, an epic triumph to pale the many others you thought defined you._

_If only you would let yourself succeed._

"I have finished my examination," Unohana-taicho informs me placidly, "There can be no question of her condition."

Standing in the corridor of the female ward in the 4th Division, I lift a hand to pull my hat down over my eyes. But the hat isn't there. One does not wear a hat in the presence of Unohana-taicho, a lady in the truest sense of the word. It's rude. And ultimately useless because the healer seems to know what you are thinking.

All the same, I miss my hat.

"Are you sure?" I ask inanely.

A barely perceptible crease appears between her elegant brows, a questioning look in her clear blue eyes. "I've never been mistaken before," Unohana-taicho assures me coolly, a hint of steel cloaked in feathers. Eying the data in the file in her hand nonetheless, she notes, "A clear diagnosis. No inconsistency. No margin of error. Your question is an odd one."

Oh, she is catering to me, using the lexicon of a scientist—a doubly effective tactic inspiring comfort with familiar terms and reminding me of the infallibility of quantifiable facts. "I… am aware of that," I reply eventually, emotion naked and unusually honest. In my own ears, I'd call my tone tentatively resentful. Resentful of what, I'm not sure. Yet.

Unohana-taicho's gaze flickers from me to the passersby I hardly notice, stepping closer to me, entering my personal space literally and metaphorically. She inquires in a hushed voice, "Forgive me for prying, but… I am sure you recognized her symptoms, that you knew what they meant. You're an inquisitive and bright man. My assessment should be nothing more than an unnecessary confirmation."

I straighten, subtly leaning away and conceding blandly, "I had my suspicions, but it's always nice to have corroboration from an expert, Unohana-taicho." I incline my head, base flattery she ignores.

"Hmm," she murmurs, scrutinizing my face with her head slightly tilted. "I do not believe you."

I laugh. "Yes, they rarely do believe me." The word '_they,'_ thereby excluding her_,_ is merely a rhetorical courtesy; in the past—the most painful rejection I have experienced—she did not believe me either.

"Kindness," Unohana-taicho smiles, never missing a masked remark, "A rare quality when coupled with genius." Abandoning the digression, she advises, "Though I do not understand your state of mind—'_they rarely do_'—you should change it before you see her. Shihouin-taicho is very excited. Your grim expression would anger and confuse her. I don't want her to strain herself; I will not allow you to ruin this moment for her." A vaguely threatening stress on the last words, she adds, "And, of course, I _will _know if you upset her, Urahara-taicho, so behave yourself."

Smiling brightly, I object, "Yoruichi is often angry with me; it's hobby we both enjoy. As for confusion, she is never confused by me—something else we enjoy."

Unohana-taicho raises a brow, inclined to doubt me but allowing that I am the expert on this. "I suppose you have a point. Two souls are infrequently bound as tightly as the two of you, both uncommonly talented and sensitive to each other's moods. Your spirit ribbons are knotted at the moment, but I suspect they are never far apart. Nevertheless… please, do not cause her pain. Empathy will not protect her from hurt. You are unhappy. _Get_ happy, preferably _now_." She turns away gracefully, her waist-length braid fluttering.

I call after her, not caring who hears me, "Happiness? You're mistaken. Why would my feelings matter? We both know I've done nothing to deserve this." Ambiguity.

Unohana-taicho pauses, angling her chin over her shoulder, "If you are undeserving of this _gift,_ then none of us are deserving. Welcome back and congratulations, Urahara Kisuke. This is the world we live in. Let go of the past." All the while, she wears a bittersweet expression, a fermented smile. She remembers all too well.

I am pinioned to my post beside Yoruichi's door by the weight of Unohana-taicho's stare, acutely aware of her overwhelming power, the faintest stirring of fear and joy in my belly. For the first time since I was a child, I acknowledge the burden her immortality—the extent of her memory. She has witnessed more beauty and ugliness than I ever will; to her, I am an infant.

I raise my hand to pull my hat which isn't there down over my eyes, knowing they are shining too intensely.

* * *

_magnum opus_

Note: This fic follows two story lines which alternate. One is the present (written in present tense) and the other is the past (written in past tense). Basically, the present events are matched with the past events which reflects a similar theme, connecting them more directly than a linear time-line._  
_

~Mare


	2. collide into us

**Musical Accompaniment: "At the Beginning with You" on the _Anastasia_ Soundtrack**

* * *

_You are the beginning of my life, the first true step I ever took, running forward with you without a thought in my head but the sound of your laughter.  
_

A boy with ash blond hair and remote gray eyes wore a cloak too fine for his ignoble position in life—the garment won in game of riddles with an arrogant man. This child survived on games of riddles, a means to earn food, shelter, and the necessities unique to those with innate power. And he enjoyed those games of riddles too.

The blond boy meandered aimlessly, lost in fleeting thought. Barefoot and hungry—_always_ hungry—he mused on the discrepancy between objectives and outcomes. _In light of the bare facts, did the intention matter when the action often yielded an unintended result? Did motivations matter when outcomes hardly ever reflected the motives?_

This was a meaningless dilemma, but that made little difference to the boy. He wasn't one for practicality, his unorthodox way of thinking bored with the mundane elements of life. The boy was too bright for the dim district of his birth. And his spirit refused to be shaded by it, although his past had not been kind.

The young boy—a true child of the Rukongai—had never met his father; so he had been christened with his mother's surname instead: Urahara. Because feeding a perpetually hungry offspring was beyond her means, his mother had abandoned him as soon as he was old enough to look after himself. Sometimes, he suspected his mother had been afraid of him, confused and wrong-footed by his inquisitive mind and unable to answer his unending questions. _Why?_ All the time _"why?"_

The blond boy was forever probing the _just is_, too curious for his own good and scaring the neighbors with his frequent experiments.

And the pragmatic concerns—water for the thirsty and blankets for the cold—did not agree with his idealistic nature. It hurt too much to compare the world as it was to the world as he thought it should be. So instead, he mused on the fridge of reality, wondering what it was all for. Searching, always searching, for a purpose to put one foot in front of the other.

On this day like any other, unremarkable in every way, the boy ambled past the ramshackle houses and downtrodden citizens, doing what he did best: pondering. Then, suddenly jolted out of the cotton clouds, the boy fell hard on his butt. Someone had collided with him from the opposite direction.

An impressive bruise pending, he looked up slowly to find a small hand, brown sugar and firm, reaching out to pull him back up onto his dirty feet. _How odd. Who would bother?_

Disoriented by his fall and lost in study of this helping hand, the boy almost missed the velvet voice to which the hand belonged. "Well? Are you going to take it or dissect it?"

The boy lifted his shaggy blond head marginally to find a pair of liquid gold eyes set in a heart-shaped face. A violent torrent of purple hair framed the girl's face. On her beanpole body, she wore the garb of a princess at play, breathable fabric stitched in a sturdy pattern and, yet, undeniably fine.

"Right," he said, sounding more confident than he felt, a latent talent for deception the boy valued. He grasped her tan hand, using his own leverage to lift his abused rear off the dirt road. Dusting off, he could not believe his luck, privately pleased despite his bruised butt. Some sort of goddess had just knocked him to the ground. And then she'd paused, sacrificing a second of her divine existence to help him. _She must be the most beautiful girl in the world._

Her golden eyes—vaguely feline, he opined—crinkled, amusement evident. "Make it a habit to walk around not looking where you're going?"'

Considering the matter critically, the boy answered, "… Yes, I suppose. I never look where I'm going because I'm never really going anywhere."

Then, they smiled at each other, she deciding this boy was strange and he conceding the point. A silent moment of understanding, a first for both of them.

'"Well," she amended begrudgingly, "I wasn't really watching where I was going, and I don't know where I'm going either. I'm kind of running... _from_ somewhere more so than _to_ somewhere. So I guess I can't fault you." Her wavy bangs shimmering in the harsh sun, she blushed rose gold, suddenly bashful, peering out from under her fringe tentatively. A rare expression for her.

Clearing his throat impressively, the boy nodded. "Quite so, that would be most hypocritical of you, Hime." Then, her chagrin overcame her embarrassment just as he had planned—she obviously didn't like being called a princess. He winked slyly, revealing his ploy and earning her laughter. He heard it with ears unaccustomed to such a sound.

Her mirth was honest, so pure the boy yearned to pray. And her gold eyes stirred like flying high in the air never fearing the fall, validating her bid for freedom. Freedom from what, he could only wonder.

An instantaneous conclusion, the boy decided that this girl—some sort of goddess—was the most alive and the least tethered. And he wanted to keep her forever because no one in this battered, defeated town could laugh the way she did.

Her eyes holding freedom, she grinned, informing him importantly, "I am Shihouin Yoruichi. What's your name?" In a flash, an indistinct premonition occurred to the boy—something about a reason to put one foot in front of the other. This flash of foresight inspired an experiment.

Only half aware his arms were thrown wide, he grinned hugely, delighted by her apparent curiosity. "My name is Kisuke," he told Yoruichi, secretly speculating and filled with unfamiliar hope. "I'm Urahara Kisuke. Come on, Yoruichi, let's have a race, you and I! Let's run together!"

He spun to face the opposite direction, absolutely sure she'd follow, that she would rush forward with him, never questioning his conviction. "Ready—"'

'"Wait!" Yoruichi yelped in sudden dismay.

'"Set—" Kisuke yelled over her protest. "Go!" He sped ahead, laughing the whole way.

'"You cheated! I wasn't ready!" she exclaimed, thoroughly scandalized and giving impressive chase.

Soon enough, Yoruichi outstripped him, turning over her shoulder to stick her tongue out at him. Rather than resenting her victory, Kisuke was intrigued. _She's so cool!_

Reaching a nearby field of tall grass beside a small ravine, they collapsed in a breathless heap, sprawled head to foot and completely unaware they'd appeared little more than insubstantial blurs to the confused citizens they had swept past.

For hours passing like seconds, Kisuke and Yoruichi lounged in the tall grass, guessing what it would feel like if the wind blew up and down instead of sideways and sharing secret dreams. Unintentionally, making memories that would define their future.

Finding in one another a purpose, a reason to race forward one foot in front of the other.

* * *

Past tense is not my forte but...

~Mare


	3. lost for words

**Musical Accompaniment: "Wonderwall" by Oasis  
**

* * *

_To find the words, lips move and tongue slides against teeth,_

_But you do not make a sound,_

_Because her lips are moving against yours, her tongue sliding,_

_But she cannot find your words either._

"Good morning," I greet her brightly, procrastinating by looking for my hat. I left it in Yoruichi's room last night when I checked her in—against her will—to the 4th Division.

Yoruichi does not reply, but I can feel her eyes probing the back of my skull waiting for me to say something honest. Apparently, she doesn't think I find anything 'good' about this particular morning.

Locating my hat under in her overnight bag—which I packed against her will—I grin victoriously, snapping it into its correct shape with a flourish.

"If you put that hat on your head, I will hurt you, Kisuke," Yoruichi warns me tonelessly. "You will be the one in need of medical attention."

I turn over my shoulder, chagrinned and annoyed. "Why?" I argue mulishly, obviously pouting. "I thought you liked my hat. I was sure you found it mysterious and sexy."

Yoruichi smirks, brow raised in challenge. "Sometimes, I like your hat, but I like your eyes better. I can't see them when you hide under your hat." Then, she yawns hugely like her warm words are nothing to fuss over.

Her absurd comments, delivered rarely and with admirable nonchalance, never cease to throw me no matter how long I've known her or how much of her I've touched. She moves me even now, tethering my limbs to her fingertips with imaginary puppet strings. A magic I treasure above her innumerable talents.

Shuffling to her side unconsciously, I sit on the edge of her bed, just watching her, studying a face I've spent my life memorizing. I catalog her expressions like one might photographs in an album, saving them for days I need to remember why I walk forward.

Yoruichi is a wild thing, free jumping from my world, chasing me and running on ahead. And I am contrary for her, simultaneously praying she remains forever free and wishing to chain her to me indefinitely.

In all the ways that matter, she is the core of me.

"I like your eyes too," I tell her absently, truth and reflex. She knows I do, and I am just repeating words I have said a million times.

Yoruichi smiles halfheartedly, replying, "What's not to like? They're stunning. Full of—what do you always say?—Ah, yes. _Freedom_." She shakes her head, rolling those stunning gold eyes.

"You don't see yourself the way I do," I remind her impassively. "Pardon the pathetic pun, but you're a mad cat; so I'm inclined to think my opinion trumps yours."

Pulling my hat from my lax grip at lightning speed, Yoruichi swats me with it. "So says the mad hatter," she laughs victoriously.

"Another terrible pun. But better than mine," I admit, laughing and rubbing my temple where she hit me.

Regrouping, turning to the most important concern—in the world—I ask, "How do you feel?"

Yoruichi smiles hugely, a staggering expression of profound awe which I catalog under _'Do not forget that one. Ever.' _

She informs me animatedly, "I feel like… like I could fly. Like I'm the luckiest woman in the world—not 'person' obviously. You have me, so you're the luckiest _man_ in the world. But that aside, Kisuke, this is it, you know? I've—_we've_—always been living so fast, and I thought I knew where we were going. But I was wrong." Yoruichi brings her hand, still holding my hat, to her abdomen, staring through the striped fabric and the white sheet covering her like she can see right past them. Right through her skin into the future growing inside her. "_This_ is where we've been going all along."

Then, Yoruichi looks up at me, staring into my eyes forcefully, and it's one of those moments I feel her heart intimately, her vision of the world settling over mine. Owning me. A flash of empathy when I can see myself as she sees me, and to her I am beautiful and worthy. She loves me as I am. And I'm ignited, left burning, in pain but so warm.

Then, her smile freezes suddenly, eyes widening and brows wrinkling, bravely attempting to mask crushing disappointment. Failing to hide it. "You're not… you don't feel the way that I do, do you?" Yoruichi asks as the fervent light in her eyes fades. Then, she turns away, barely wincing. "Never mind. Please don't answer that."

Agitated, I grope for words, grabbing her hand, maybe grabbing for my hat but I'm not sure, whispering urgently, "Don't ever say that. Please don't 'never mind' me. You know I hate it when you shut me out."

"Oh," she mocks me bitterly, "You _hate _that. Well, you, son of a bitch, I sort of don't give a fuck what you hate at the moment. And don't bother denying what I see in your eyes. You're afraid of our son!" Yoruichi points to her belly, accusing me and acknowledging this_ son_ of ours at the same time. "I can feel your fear. Goddamn it, you are such an idiot, and you're… and I… Just uh!"

While she flounders with fury, squirming a bit on the narrow bed, I sigh, "And you sort of hate _me_ right now, yeah?"

Yoruichi nods fiercely, averting her gaze because she feels vulnerable and can't stand showing weakness. Even to me. "Why do you do this to us? Why can't you just let the damn Hougyoku go? You're not responsible for everything! Sorry to kill your ego, but the world doesn't revolve around you, so stop thinking every fucking thing is your fault. To hell everyone else, _I_ forgive you. Why can't you forgive yourself?"

I consider her words, searching for answers to her legitimate questions. But it's hopeless, just no good. If Yoruichi does not know why, how am I supposed to know? I'm not the expert on the subject of 'me.' She is.

Shrugging in defeat, I hedge, blasé, "What a filthy vocabulary, Hime. I love it when you talk dirty to me." Trying to tease some life into her eyes.

Yoruichi almost succeeds in suppressing a grin, just a tiny one but still. It's there. "Figures you'd love it, Rukon brat. Filth is your natural state."

The habitual insult flies over me, too old to bother. Switching tact and poised to face the inevitable, I ask tentatively, "So, a boy, eh? I disagree."

"What a surprise," Yoruichi snorts, exasperated. "You would find a way to disagree with two plus two equals four just to piss me off."

"You wound me, Hime," I groan, "I'd _never_ argue mathematical certainty—not even for your benefit. However, this is different. That kid living in your uterus is a girl not a boy. I would bet your life on it, and that's really saying something."

"_Our_ kid. Not _that_ kid. Don't disassociate yourself from him. It's rude," Yoruichi mutters, adding, "And don't call me 'Hime,' Rukon brat."

"But I have a thing for princesses," I argue thoughtfully, reaching out to run my fingers through her hair, and Yoruichi leans into my hand instinctively even though she is still mad at me. "Hence, my conviction that I have a daughter not a son. Another princess to add to my impressive collection."

Absently, I consider Benihime's reaction to this news. Her smugness is nearly unbearable; she likes the idea of another princess. My own princess by blood, thus making me defacto Shihouin nobility. What rubbish.

And yet, an undeniably elegant solution like a division problem with no remainder. Blood and princesses: the story of my life.

Yoruichi reaches out to touch me too, fingers smooth and confident, gentle but strong, striking at the heart of the matter, "Quit being stupid. Be brilliant. Be the man I know you are because I need you. _We_ need you."

Because I cannot help myself, her pull fierce and inexorable, I lean down to kiss her. Yoruichi tastes like god feels, and I lose myself in her, alternately firm and yielding against her lips, my world revolving around the velvet of her tongue.

But Yoruichi breaks away, stronger than I am because I never feel right when I can't taste her. She holds my face between her hands like I'm something vital, breathing, "To me, you are the most important person in the world, but it's not my world anymore. It's _hers_, our princess. Please believe that you deserve us. Her. Please don't be afraid."

But I am afraid. I'm afraid of the mistakes I've made, all the harm I've done to my daughter's world. What will I do when I hold her? How can I face her when she asks me why? Can I touch her without ruining her?

Because my intentions have always been good but my results have always been bad.

Almost too low to be heard, I whisper, "I've been running with you my whole life. Always away from things and headed toward vague somewhere. And now, it's like… and you…"

Taking pity on me, Yoruichi murmurs, "Sh," releasing me and placing my godforsaken hat on my head, pushing it down over my eyes.

But we both know what she's doing.

Yoruichi doesn't want to see the persistent fear in my eyes.

And she doesn't want me to see the echoed pain in hers.

* * *

So, so on this, I think.

~Mare


	4. I just know

_magnum opus_ has snowballed. A talented friend and writing partner has agreed to let me expand and explore an element of her story, _Catalyst_. I don't know if any of you have read it, and it isn't necessary to follow or understand _magnum opus_. But _Catalyst_ is a wonderful story, and I hope you enjoy it as much as I have. That aside, a few tiny tweaks to the first and third chapters are on their way. Nothing life altering; just a few words here and there.

* * *

**Musical Accompaniment: "Son of Man" by Phil Collins, _Tarzan_ Soundtrack.**

**

* * *

**

_I'll be what you need, extending my hand across the line between our worlds. And if you are brave enough to take my hand in yours, I will never let you go. On that line, I will create a new world just for us. A home for you in the palm of my hand. _

Shihouin Yoruichi was special, a child born at sunrise on the first day of the year. The long awaited 22nd heir of Shihouin-ke.

With solemn satisfaction, her clansmen said the time and date of her birth was an auspicious omen. But Yoruichi had no use for her elder clansmen or their _opinions_.

She only heeded her parents. To ignore them would be difficult because her parents were _colossi:_ esteemed public figures and private behemoths. They mattered, their opinions like great pillars bearing the weight of Yoruichi's world.

Her father, Shihouin Tarou, governed the 2nd Division and the Clan with iron resolve. He seemed to know everything about everyone; their lovers and enemies, dreams and fears, talents and faults. Tarou made it his business to know. And though he was surefooted, Yoruichi's father invited the wisdom of others. Not just hearing but listening to those who depended upon his judgment to thrive.

To his daughter, he bestowed more than knowing eyes, not just ready ears and pretty things. Shihouin Tarou gave his daughter fierce love and a deep appreciation for her people. He gave her pride. And, of course, a legacy—the gift—of the Shihouin Cat.

Tarou's wife was his mirror image, left was right and right was left but still a perfect reflection.

Yoruichi's mother Tsubame was of Shiba blood with the trademark Shiba fire in her eyes. Willful and quick to smirk, a razor sharp tongue, Tsubame was the oldest of fraternal twins. As a child, she had been groomed as 17th heir of Shiba-ke, but Shihouin Tarou had different ideas.

According to the legend—Yoruichi regarded the fantastical tale as a _legend_ more so than a history—her parents had met at the academy and "just knew" they were meant to be together.

Though Shiba in temper, Tsubame was a Shihouin at heart. She was an agile woman who rose rapidly through the ranks to become the commander of the Onmitsukidõ, a position traditionally held by a prominent member of Shihouin-ke.

Yoruichi's mother was unabashedly opinionated, a clever remark always dancing on her lips. While her husband gave Yoruichi pride, Tsubame gave her daughter conviction. And a penchant for curse words and easy laughter.

Her mother told their family's "utterly mawkish happily ever after story" more colorfully than her father with his sparse words and small smile; so Yoruichi believed the truth laid somewhere in between.

Whichever account was true, Yoruichi's parents gave her one other gift which she prized above the others.

Freedom.

They knew she ran wild in Rukongai to escape the scrutiny of the Clan, but they neither punished her nor had her followed.

Shihouin Yoruichi was free to discover the world in any way she pleased, running forward recklessly, grin broad. More often than not, running off to find her best friend Urahara Kisuke.

Uncharacteristically tightlipped, Yoruichi hadn't told her parents about Kisuke, and they never asked.

Still, she suspected they might know more than they let on. Once her mother had rushed home with fevered eyes, asking, "_He_'s the one then?" When Yoruichi asked, "What the hell are you on about?" her mother had refused to answer. And later, at dinner, her father had seemed inexplicably sad, wearing a melancholy expression.

But Yoruichi did not comment; she did not demand an explanation. Because she knew, just knew, Kisuke was a part of this odd turn of events. It seemed to her that he was quickly becoming a part of everything.

_So contrary._ Kisuke was a secret in her heart which touched every place in her mind. He was a specter, an unlikely character in a daydream. Sometimes, Yoruichi woke in the middle of the night, wondering if he was real. Could anyone be so extraordinary; was it possible to be so immense and yet untouched? Untarnished by a harsher world Yoruichi could not understand.

This night, however, Yoruichi did not wake in the middle of the night wondering if Kisuke was real. Because she had not slept at all.

Yoruichi stole away from the Shihouin compound hours before daybreak, thrilled beyond mere excitement. She had planned to leave at dawn, but whiling away the nighttime hours—an eternity by her estimation—seemed a waste. So, she left before the Sun ascended, running east to she greet it when it rose.

Her particular mode of running was akin to darting, padding, leaping from great heights and always landing on her feet like a cat. _Like a cat,_ she thought smugly, remembering her long struggle to _be_ a cat rather than act like one. She had finally succeeded.

Hence, Yoruichi's stealthy exit and subsequent journey to District 31. Her impatience intensified as she darted, padded, and leaped.

Kisuke would be so surprised; he would have to concede that she was _definitely_ the coolest.

Because, at the moment, Yoruichi was, in fact, a cat.

Kisuke had been a bit too self-important lately. He had managed the impossible—well, Yoruichi had _thought_ it was impossible. Apparently, not for Urahara Kisuke.

Several weeks ago, Yoruichi had been racing Kisuke through the bazaar in District 4. She'd turned over her shoulder to check his progress, and as was her habit, Yoruichi stuck her tongue out at him because he was losing. Oblivious to the cramped street ahead, she'd tripped on a stack of ceramic planters, shattering several. Yoruichi's arms had shot out instinctively to break her fall, slicing her hand against one of the broken shards. But Kisuke ran to her side faster than she had ever seen him run.

He had taken her injured hand and closed his eyes tightly, whispering to himself, words melodious and indistinct. For an instant, their joined hands glowed white, but when Kisuke opened his eyes, the glow was gone. He released Yoruichi's hand, turning it palm up. The blood oozing from her cut and onto her clothes had disappeared. Only a rust colored scab remained to prove Yoruichi had fallen at all.

Aside from a few broken planters.

But one word had placated the angry ceramics dealer. Just a name. Yoruichi had not said it, but Kisuke had, nodding in her direction and declaring pointedly, "Shihouin-ke."

At the time, Yoruichi had been too mystified by Kisuke's healing magic to pay attention to namedropping, but she kicked him on the shin for it later.

Her ire passed quickly, but her curiosity did not. Yoruichi had asked Kisuke numerous times how he had healed her cut, but he trivialized her questions, enjoying her burning curiosity far too much.

"If you say 'I'm Kisuke's favorite hime,' I'll tell you," he had bargained haughtily.

_Fat chance_.

Still, Yoruichi wondered what he meant by _favorite_. A word like 'favorite' suggested that Kisuke had more than one princess, an idea Yoruichi found distasteful.

Privately, she did not deny his claim that she was _his_ princess. Because she was.

But Yoruichi was not going to admit it aloud, not even to satisfy her curiosity.

Because Kisuke was already bigheaded, no need to inflate his ego further.

And because she despised the epithet '_princess_.'

Originally, Yoruichi's disparaging opinion of the nickname was rooted in irritation more so than actually dislike. But her initial irritation had grown—matured, she thought—with every race she and her best friend ran, always ending with Kisuke conceding, "You'd think I would have learned by now. It is never smart to challenge royalty."

Yoruichi did not like his closing remarks one bit. When Kisuke dropped subtle hints that she lived in a different world, Yoruichi's chest hurt, a dull ache. And so, she grew to hate the word 'princess' because separation—an implied disconnection between them—was dishonest.

She had never felt so connected, so real to anyone.

Urahara Kisuke was a stranger and an old friend, someone Yoruichi had craved long before they had met.

Kisuke's life was different; she knew that. He was born as night fell on the last day of the year, a dark ending: the antithesis of Yoruichi's bright beginning. And his past was filled unfamiliar faces and places and feelings. He'd been alone in an unforgiving environment for a very long time. Everything he knew of mankind's coldness was in direct opposition to Yoruichi's warm home.

But he was family. He was the other half of her world.

She just knew.

And as night yielded to dawn, a short but frustrating forever, she found Kisuke in his usual spot. He was lounging in the expansive red oak in a secluded field beside a ravine; they had spent their first afternoon together in this familiar field.

Kisuke still liked to come here to watch the sky change and to "ponder matters a princess would not understand." When he said such things, Yoruichi gave him new things to think about: an extensive bruise or a new curse word she'd overheard her mother mutter.

"So, you're here," Kisuke yawned from his perch in the tree.

Managing grace despite his recent growth spurt—his arms and legs were currently too big for him—Kisuke jumped from the branch he'd been sitting on. He landed on the balls of his too big feet, falling into a squat right in front of Yoruichi.

Yoruichi the Cat.

More a kitten than a cat.

Her instant agitation was terrible, potent with grave disappointment. Kisuke was not supposed to know the little black kitten was really his best friend. Yoruichi had been counting on shock and awe. On impressing him. _Stupid, stupid, stupid know-it-all._

"Forgive me, Hime, but I must tell you that you're very cute in a fur coat," Kisuke quipped. "Almost as cute as you are in person." Then, he reached out, slow and tentative, to scratch Yoruichi between her tiny ears.

If felines were capable of frowns, Yoruichi imagined hers would have been most severe.

However, she did not back away from his hand because it felt strange and wonderful. In her kitten form, she had never been touched before. Even in her daydreams, she had not imagined the intensity of the sensation.

Nor had Yoruichi imagined she could purr.

But she did purr, a supple vibration raising the hair on the back of Kisuke's neck. Barely placated by his rhythmic stroking, Yoruichi rubbed against his ankles, knowing this very feline gesture would amuse him.

And, of course, Kisuke laughed. "I might like you better this way. You're _softer_."

Smirking on the inside, Yoruichi extended her little claws, leaving three angry red lines on his shin. "You let your guard down," she wanted to scold him, but…

Suddenly static and absolutely dumbfounded, Yoruichi looked up at Kisuke questioningly. _Did I just… talk?_

That couldn't be right. Talking was not a part of the Shihouin legend; no one with the 'the gift' could talk.

Cats do not_ talk._

Rather than a baffled expression, Kisuke stared down at Yoruichi with naked speculation. He didn't seem at all alarmed by this mysterious deviation from Shihouin canon. Taking advantage of Yoruichi's shock, he plopped down in front of her, grabbing her tiny kitten body with both hands and lifting her to eye-level.

"Wh-at are you doing?" Yoruichi yelped, squirming and writhing, attempting to bite him.

"Checking something," Kisuke replied vaguely, lifting her ever so slightly higher and scrutinizing her body unabashedly. "Hmm. How curious," he murmured with the thwarted air of one denied a great treat. "You are still a girl."

As retribution for that keen observation, Yoruichi bite him ruthlessly, aiming to sever a finger. _Or three._

She was indignant, positively brimming over with fury!

And she was embarrassed. Kisuke was _not_ supposed to scrutinize her… lady parts. The fact that he had—that he had done so to determine whether or not she was _still_ a girl—only fanned her burning rage.

Between clenched teeth, the fate of Kisuke's fingers in the balance, Yoruichi berated, "You! You, Rukon brat!"

Kisuke managed to grin past the pain, explaining in a rush, "Definitely still a girl, but you _sound_ like a boy. Extraordinarily like a boy."

Surprise freezing fury, Yoruichi paused, unconsciously releasing his fingers from deadly peril. "Do I really?"

Listening to the timbre of her voice for the first time, Yoruichi said tentatively, "Urahara Kisuke is an immoral bastard." The tone was decidedly masculine, a smooth tenor. _I do sound like a guy!_

Bemused, Kisuke rolled his eyes, pulling her into his lap. "Why must you doubt me? I would never lie to _you_," he moaned wretchedly.

Yoruichi was hesitant to believe that because Kisuke was a liar. She'd caught him lying to almost everyone they encountered, and his lies rolled off his tongue with frightening and impressive ease. Kisuke was a natural chameleon, a one man act constantly switching hats to suit the situation.

Still, to Yoruichi's knowledge, he had never lied to her.

Leaning over, Kisuke ran an experimental finger down her spine. And again, Yoruichi purred, lower this time, a harmonic rumble so suggestive of grown-up things she blushed beneath her fur.

But Kisuke feigned ignorance, sighing in a bored sort of way, laying back on the grass and unfolding his legs.

Intentionally dropping Yoruichi to the ground between them.

Unable to decide if the gesture was merciful or teasing—he wasn't inciting purrs anymore, but now she was nestled _in between_ his legs—Yoruichi hopped onto his left knee, claws grazing his skin, and ambled slowly up his thigh. _Two can play that little game!_

Then, Yoruichi hopped onto his chest, sinking her claws into the threadbare fabric of yukata, careful not to scratch his skin underneath. Her eye darted to his face, catching the ghost of a flustered frown. Satisfied, she curled up comfortably, whispering, "Just because I look like a cat doesn't mean I don't think like a girl; so don't do shit like that. You've a brain. Use it."

Kisuke did not argue. Yoruichi was often angry with him but not for long and never deeply.

The silence grew easy and familiar while they observed the last of fading stars. The peaceful quiet between them was hard to justify. Yoruichi didn't understand, could not find a legitimate reason for the sudden harmony in moments like these. Like everything was abruptly meaningful. She could see the equilibrium between hollows and shinigami, the ephemeral loveliness of humans. Yoruichi thought that time was odd and disjointed when she and her best friend watched the world spin.

She only knew time existed because she could hear Kisuke's heartbeat counting seconds passing.

A strange symmetry, the whole world spinning to the beat of her best friend's heart. _Just like magic. Like his own brand of magic._

"How do you do it?" Yoruichi asked as the sky turned an opalescent indigo. "How do you know everything about everything? How'd you know it was me?"

Kisuke grinned hugely, rising on his elbows to see her face. "I know everything because you _think_ I know everything. Perspective. And how could I mistake you for an average cat? Your eyes are the same, though maybe a little more… free." Then, he winked, shamelessly coy because he knew Yoruichi couldn't fathom his assertion that her big golden eyes reminded him of freedom.

Puzzled but vaguely pleased, Yoruichi scooted up his chest a bit farther, head on her paws right below his face and tail twitching in time with her sanguine thoughts. Impulsive, she licked the tip of his nose, wondering if it felt like sandpaper, wondering if he felt as whole as she did.

Kisuke smiled again, softer this time but equally delighted. His cool gray eyes were slate in the dim light of dawn, but something inside them, something deep inside, shone brightly for just an instant. "I have a present for you, Yoruichi," he whispered conspiratorially, "Something special I made just for you."

Yoruichi's tiny ears perked, curious but wary. Kisuke's presents were usually ridiculous: a cherry blossom which never withered, a snow globe filled of real snow, a nightlight which shimmered quicksilver. Kisuke liked to create absurd things, and Yoruichi knew that half of his inventions were the products of pure ingenuity. But she also knew that Kisuke tapped into his innate power, his reiatsu, to add magic and wonder his nifty contraptions. Though he was barely a teen, Kisuke could already control and manipulate his reiatsu.

Yoruichi could tap hers too, and it was gratifying to find a friend, someone her own age, who could comprehend and compete, always pushing her forward.

Even if Kisuke never beat her in a race.

Stealing herself and still a bit drunk on the residual contentment of watching the stars die away, Yoruichi murmured, "If it's for me, then it better special because I'm your favorite… I'm your girl."

Kisuke nodded seriously, lifting Yoruichi off his chest and sitting up. He placed her carefully on the grass before him. Staring opaquely into the nothingness above her head, he was quiet and still for a long moment, wearing an unreadable expression.

Then, Kisuke pulled a long black ribbon from his sleeve, holding it out for Yoruichi's inspection.

"A ribbon?" she mumbled blandly. _Anticlimax, much?_

"Nope," Kisuke replied quietly, weighing the silky strip of fabric in his hand. "It's a necklace. Or, it will be. I've been saving it until you mastered transformation. And now that you have, I wanted… I thought you might wear this."

"… Oh," Yoruichi said, voice dead. She stared at the ribbon, a building tumult of conflicting emotions surging in her heart.

He always said she was free. And Yoruichi wanted—more than anything—to be free because he _needed_ her to be free. Perspective.

Yoruichi's eyes fell away. She'd be damned before she let him see how much he had hurt her feelings, a betrayal she hadn't thought possible. _How could he do this to me? Am I… a joke? Just a play thing? A pet?_

She backed away slowly, shaking her head, denying everything. "You made me a _collar?_ A collar for what? Because you own me or something? I hate you Urahara Kisuke."

Ear pinned back, Yoruichi hissed, "You're not a brat; you're an arrogant son of a _bitch_. And I hate you!" incredibly cruel, a underhanded blow to his heart. Kisuke had been abandoned by his mother and never knew his father. Yoruichi lashed out at him, aiming low, because she was wounded, hurting him because she could. And despite her betrayed feelings, she quelled beneath his wide eyed stare.

Now, Yoruichi felt even worse.

Almost like crying.

The urge to flee surging, she fixed her thoughts on the horrifying image of tears for Urahara Kisuke lest she drown in the other, exponentially more horrifying thoughts. Mortified, Yoruichi spun to run.

But Kisuke snatched her tail just in time to impede her escape, rambling thickly, "You can leave if you want. I won't keep you here if you want to leave, but before you go, I just want to clarify a major misunderstanding—"

Immobile, resolve weak, Yoruichi did not struggle against his grip nor did she turn to face him. She just tamped her feelings, the maelstrom roaring in her ears. To listen because she _wanted_ to believe there was a better explanation than the one she'd decided upon.

Failing to sound composed, he continued, "I suppose you could call this ribbon a 'collar' if you wanted, but it doesn't… it's not a symbol of ownership. I only… it's just, you will be able to sneak out more often now because you can transform, so I made this 'necklace' to give you a way to find me whenever you want. I chose a necklace because it will stretch and retract when you change forms. It will not fall off, and I promise it won't choke you."

Yoruich's right ear flicked, rotating in his direction and giving him confidence.

Voice rising, Kisuke explained further, "The fabric is very special, the longitudinal threads are just that: mundane silk threads. But the latitudinal threads are not really threads at all. They are strands of my reiatsu, solidified and tempered so they will not degrade over time. If you wear this, you will always know where I am because the fabric will resonate, even at a great distance."

"I bet you could even feel me in another dimension. If you _choose_ to wear it, that is…"

Then, Kisuke fell silent, lost in his unique flow of a million thoughts, a million brilliant schemes and bright ideas. And Yoruichi wished she could see his face. She yearned to hear those thoughts, brilliant schemes and bright ideas, wanting to be a part of each and every one.

Unconsciously, Kisuke's thumb caressed the velvet texture of her tail, whispering, "I would never bind you. I only want to give you means to find your way back to me if you ever run too far ahead… I never seem to win our races, do I? Seems like I am always the one chasing you."

Then, Kisuke let go of Yoruichi's tail, his loose grip sliding away like nothing but leaving the impression of incompleteness. That he had taken something with him.

Yoruichi stood there for a moment, feeling stupid and unkind, deeply moved and very much in love with her best friend. Then, she turned slowly and said in an undertone, "Can you help me put it on?"

Kisuke nodded seriously, reaching out and waiting for Yoruichi to meet him halfway. And she did, lifting her head proudly so he could wind the thin black ribbon around her neck. Wearing a small smirk, Kisuke tied the ends in a little bow.

Yoruichi rolled her back and closed her eyes, familiarizing herself with the resonance: the faint pulse like a beating heart.

Head still high, Yoruichi fastened her gaze onto his, meeting Kisuke halfway one more time. She told him honestly, "Kisuke, I'm sorry. I should not have said that about your mother—It's true, of course. She is a bitch. How could anyone abandon you?—but I was wrong for throwing it in your face. And… I tried to abandon you too. You said you'd never lie to me, and you always say you like me best when I'm free. I doubted you, and then I hurt you on purpose, and then I tried to run away."

Yoruichi watched Kisuke's brows wrinkle under the weight of deep contemplation, tilting his head in that peculiar way she recognized. As always, he was hopelessly confused by the simplest things: why he mattered, how special he was, and how much she cared.

"I can't say I won't hurt you ever again. I can't even say I won't do it on purpose. But..." Yoruichi paused, finding the words on the tip of her tongue, tasting them and realizing they were truer than any she had ever spoke. "I won't doubt you ever again. And I won't ever abandon you."

Because she knew, _just knew_, they were meant to be together.

It took a long time for Kisuke to speak. He merely gazed back at Yoruichi, at the ribbon wound thrice around her neck. "You know, the collar isn't actually black," Kisuke observed, habitually evasive, but for once the attempt was pale. Yoruichi could _feel_ the tenure of his heart in the ribbon. "In the sun, it's has a reddish patina. Like… right now, for example."

Yoruichi nodded blankly, diverted by his slate gray eyes. They'd caught the first ray of sunlight from the east and changed color instantly. She thought they looked like moonstones. _Moonstones in the Sun. Contrary just like him._

_

* * *

_

_Thank you, my little canary, for your trust, support, and confidence in my ability to bring this story to life. I promise to live up to the vision we've shared; magnum opus is dedicated to you._

This chapter is longer, but I just couldn't cut anymore of it.

**Thanks for the first reviews. It's always hard to get the ball rolling on a new project, and early support adds momentum to the process.**

~ Mare.


End file.
